


Order of Operations

by patternofdefiance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Friends becoming more, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Life or Death Situation, M/M, Pre-Slash, bromance goggles comaptible, hurt/comfort x 2 (sort of), if you have a fear of elevators/lifts this is not for you, minor appearance by minor government official, strangely devoted!Sherlock, tense situation involving elevator/lift, terrorism attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patternofdefiance/pseuds/patternofdefiance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emergency lights flicker on.<br/>Never a good sign.<br/>John opens his eyes. Smoke, hazy air, smells sour, concrete dust. Not the desert. City. Insurgent bombings. Civilians. Casualties.<br/>Wounded.<br/>“Sherlock?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Order of Operations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tysolna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tysolna/gifts).



> Yet another one of the follower appreciation ficlets, this time for the wonderful Tysolna, whose prompt was:
> 
> Since I know how tricky prompts can be, I've got two to chose from. One: Sherlock and John get stuck in an elevator. The call button does not work and the cables are about to snap... Two: I love those photoshop battle pictures of Benedict falling. Choose one that sparks your muse and have fun with it. 
> 
> As the 'Ben falling' pics had me in stitches and unable to write anything worth sharing, I chose the first prompt. It led me unexpected places - for that I thank you! I also hope you like where this ended up.
> 
> It is also worth noting that I am currently battling a fever. And this work is unbeta'd. SO.  
> If there are any glaring flaws/issues, please let me know in the comments or via tumblr-ask. <3

Emergency lights flicker on.

Never a good sign.

John opens his eyes. Smoke, hazy air, smells sour, concrete dust. Not the desert. City. Insurgent bombings. Civilians. Casualties.

Wounded.

“Sherlock?” John coughs and sits up – tries to. “Sherlock, come on. Wake up.” He coughs again, but the air is sharp with dust, with irritants, and Sherlock is a dead weight on his chest, and he can’t just shove the man off.

Possible injuries, possible complications.

Thoughts trickle in: London, case, Mycroft.

Also: _lift_.

John frowns and realizes where they are – or rather where they _were_ when the explosion happened.

The lift in Mycroft’s building. Shit. They’d been on the top floor, and then –

John remembers the rattlerumble _quaking_ right before a feeling of plummeting.

Not good.

“Sherlock, come on, please wake up.”

They have to move, get to cover. Not cover. _London_. Need to radio for support. Not support –

John looks up, and there is a ‘service call’ button. He reaches up and smashes it with his fist. No lights, no helpful voice, no support.

He checks his mobile – no signal.

He’s going to have to move Sherlock. “Sherlock.” Please don’t let him have a spinal injury. “Sherlock, I’m serious.” At least he still has a pulse. “Sherlock –”

“Uhnnn.”

John lets his head fall back against the wall as relief crashes through him – he’s instantly sorry he did so, but Sherlock is alive and responsive, and John’s alive to hear it, and maybe it’s a concussion or more likely shock, but he can’t help the laugh that burbles out. “Sherlock,” he huffs, “come on wake up.”

“John?” Sherlock’s voice cracks halfway through, and he starts to shift. His spine digs into John’s front.

“Are you hurt? Can you move?”

John watches as those eyes blink open, flutter, dart, and then Sherlock hisses out a breath and sits up.

Well, that answers _that_ in the riskiest way possible. Right. Sherlock. Of course.

“We have to get out of here – Sherlock?”

Sherlock is cradling his head in his hands. His breathing is shallow. “Concussion,” he says tightly. He blinks and looks around, eyes darting back and forth, rapid fire recall, something John’s seen before countless times. “Terrorist attack,” Sherlock says. “Multi-level detonation. Most likely retaliation for –”

“Uh huh, that’s great. Also, I don’t think any of that matters right now.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.” Sherlock stands shakily, and John joins him, and they make a fine sight, both clutching at the smooth walls and inset handholds. Sherlock turns pale and his hand shakes as he presses it to his mouth.

“Nausea,” John says, because the alternative is simply letting the severity of Sherlock’s head injury echo around inside his own skull.

“Brilliant deduction,” Sherlock mumbles, but he manages not to throw up. “Call service?” he asks, adding, “While we’re being obvious?”

John shakes his head. “What about the hatch?”

They both look up as a loud, grating creak shudders its way down towards them and then beyond them, past their feet. They look at each other.

“Boost me,” John says, and it’s a mark of the sudden clarity and seriousness of their situation that Sherlock doesn’t argue or jibe, simply kneels and braces his hands for John’s boot. He grunts and huffs and lifts John up to the service hatch.

It’s Mycroft’s building, so the hatch seams were finely fitted and thus impossible to shift even before the metal was torqued by the drop and sudden stop. There’s no budging it. John tries again, but he can feel Sherlock’s muscles quivering. “Down,” he grunts, and Sherlock manages not to drop him.

“No luck,” he says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes but doesn’t call him out on his verbal redundancy.

“Doors,” Sherlock says, and John steps closer to look.

The fall had jarred the doors slightly askew, so that a small gap appeared near the floor. John crouches and wriggles his fingers into that little space, and it hurts, but he manages. “Come on, genius, help me.” He starts pulling in one direction, and Sherlock gets his fingers in and tugs the other way. The doors are sluggish to shift, resistant even as the gap widens to an inch, two inches, two and a half –

The opening mechanism catches, and the doors counterweight themselves open; John falls back and bumps his shoulder and head against the wall again. Sherlock is slightly better balanced, so only John’s hiss of pain crowds the little metal box.

“John –” Sherlock is by his side in an instant.

“I’m fine,” John pants. “Fine.” His fingers find the new bump even as Sherlock’s trace the old one.

“Two consecutive cranial traumas.”

John smirks up at Sherlock. “Brilliant deduction,” he teases. “Now help me up, let’s see if we can –”

The building – columns of steel and concrete, sheets of glass, tangles of piping and cable – _shifts_. As if the ground beneath it is somehow less stable –

“Sublevel detonations, delayed for –”

“Move, Sherlock!” John shoves the detective towards the open doors, and there, closer to the top of the doorway, the split seam of the building doors. If they can get those doors open, there will be just enough space to squeeze through. “Get me up there!”

He’s lifted up, Sherlock’s arm around his hips holding him steady as he strains to get his fingers some purchase. He can feel his knuckle joints protesting, sharp lances of pain as some of them lock up, as nails score and tear against the surface.

There’s a tremor running through everything now, and above them their taxed suspension cables creak and groan.

“John, not to rush you or anything –”

“Shut it!” John grits his teeth and _shoves_ the points of his fingers home, and it works, except for a moment John can’t see for the pain, but then there’s room for more fingers, and he push-pulls and then falls back as the doors slide open.

Sherlock’s hands slip and slide up to grip and steady him, one about the waist, one across the chest, under his arms, and they both nearly topple, but then the floor is beneath John’s feet, and Sherlock’s hands on John’s body are the only evidence of what nearly happened.

After a moment, those lift away too, and Sherlock is tugging John forward, hoisting him up –

“Oh no you don’t – you first, Sherlock!”

“But John –”

“NOW!” John crouches out of Sherlock’s hold to lift his friend, who weighs more than expected, but at least from this position John can use his legs to shove the detective up towards the doors even as he grunts and strains. Pulling him up with his problem shoulder would not have been feasible, the lanky, bony, _heavy_ git.

Sherlock snorts as if he can hear John. “And yet you are always after me to eat more.”

“Well I can see you’ve taken my advice to heart, now get up there!” Even though his arms aren’t doing much lifting, they quiver and struggle as Sherlock pulls himself up and out, wriggling like a landed fish to get his shoulders through the exit gap.

No sooner has Sherlock cleared the threshold than another great rumble sets the lift to shaking, unnerving sounds of shifting concrete and straining cable in tow. John’s stomach flip-flops as the lift drops a few inches.

“John!” Sherlock pokes his head back in, reaching a hand for John. He’s white as bleached bone, his eyes locked on John’s.

“ _Get back_ – if it falls now –!” John hardly recognizes his voice. The image of Sherlock guillotined or crushed makes John rock back as if struck.

The metal box shimmies a bit, and the doors start to shift, narrowing the gap. Pale fingers curl around their edges to keep them from closing. “John, don’t be an idiot, get over here now!”

The lift drops another inch. “Sherlock, get your hands out of the way!”

“John if you don’t come out this _instant_ , I will go back in!”

“ _Bastard_ ,” John hisses and lurches over to the door as the ground beneath his feet sways. “If you get hurt,” he begins, but he stops at the vicious look in Sherlock’s eyes, something cold and akin to fury layered over something far more potent and primal.

John jumps and clasps Sherlock’s outstretched hand with both of his, legs scrabbling for purchase as Sherlock pulls him up and through the narrow aperture of the misaligned doorways. For a moment John fears he’ll be stuck, that everything will come crashing down, but then he’s clear, landing in a heap with Sherlock.

They lie breathless and tangled for a moment, then scramble to their feet.

The floor buckles and they are nearly thrown down again – behind them the lift settles another six inches down. John blanches as he realizes he would have been stuck inside, trapped, perhaps with the smallest of gaps left through which Sherlock’s fingers would have strained to reach him, those eyes still peering through the slit. When he looks at Sherlock, he sees that unnamed emotion on his friend’s face again, and this time with nothing to cover it, he can read it for what it was and is: desperation. Fear.

It seems to cut both ways, lancing into John even as it pins Sherlock in place, and for a moment, they are simply caught in the snare of that shared moment.

“Come on, John!” Sherlock recovers first, but his balance is off as he tries to lead the way. Right – _concussion._ John links their arms and props him up from a side, and they set off together: it’s a mad scramble down staircases and corridors, through wrecked offices, but while Sherlock’s feet are unsure, his mind is not – he plots safe and alternate routes for them, and John makes it happen.

John’s not sure if minutes or hours pass, would fully believe either estimate, but at last they clear the main entry way – or what remains of it – and make it past the worst of the debris.

People are everywhere, some crying, some quiet, everyone painted in the reds and browns and blacks of trauma, the yellows and whites of shock. There’s ash and blood and that sour smell of a concrete building dying by fire and explosives. The smell clears John’s head even as it clouds his thoughts, and he finds he’s moving with renewed purpose. He has an objective.

Paramedics are on hand, and police, and the fire brigade, and it feels good to see them, faces calm and set and responsive. Those alert and assessing faces stand out against the backdrop of blank and wide-eyed disbelief like bonfires in a sea of mist, and John is close to collapse, but won’t until he sees Sherlock to the nearest ambulance, because that’s not how any of this goes. Order of operations: Survive the assault. Assess the damage. Evacuate the wounded. Stay with your men. They come first.

_Your men come first, and you stay with them to make sure they do. Stay with them. Stay with –_

John realizes that his hands are being pried from Sherlock’s arm, that someone is trying to settle him onto a stretcher, and that’s wrong, because Sherlock should be on a stretcher and John should be by his side. This cannot be how it goes.

“No,” he tries to explain, “not me, him, Sherlock first,” but it’s no use, and then Sherlock is by his side, holding on, his face swimming in front of John’s, the Aegean blue of his eyes murked with worry.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, and then he says it again, eyes furious: “You are _bleeding_.”

 _Stay with._ John gives up trying to keep his eyes open when he sees someone force Sherlock onto a stretcher nearby.

Good.

They are both being loaded, transported. Field hospital – no. Transfer to medical centre.

Evacuate the wounded.

Yes.

_Stay with –_

 

*

 

John wakes up four times:

John doesn’t remember the first time he wakes up, much like he doesn’t remember how he sustained the laceration in his scalp that bled unchecked while he and Sherlock escaped the crumbling nightmare of Mycroft’s offices.

(That is to say, he will likely never regain those memories.)

John doesn’t remember the second time he wakes up, much in the same way he doesn’t remember Mycroft standing by his side and quietly saying thank you before turning away, a bevy of doctors and guards waiting for him by John’s recovery room doorway.

(That is to say, he remembers later and thinks it a dream, but suspects it wasn’t.)

John wakes up the third time, and his hand closes around Sherlock’s before it can retreat. For a moment he doesn’t even know what happened, except that something was shifting against the skin of his palm, and for someone who spent years in the desert sleeping in every inhospitable scenario and terrain possible, that grab reflex is an absolute _shite_ reflex to have.

But it stops Sherlock’s hand from shrinking away, keeps that familiar skin close, that infrequent connection unbroken, and that’s redemption enough.

“Sherlock,” he says, and his voice is stale, brittle with disuse and dehydration. He suspects he was intubated by the grating rawness of his throat’s movements.

Sherlock says nothing, but his fingers shift and squeeze around John’s, fleetingly.

“Alright?” John asks, and he tries for a smile, but his whole face feels _off_ , loose and unfamiliar. He has trouble keeping his eyes open, but he’ll be damned if he lets them close now, not with Sherlock here. He wants to stay here, in the grey light (is the day dawning or fading?) with Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, simply stares at John as if he’s trying to drink all of him in, as if he can store him if only he keeps looking long enough.

“Godssake say something, Sherlock.” John shifts against the mattress, half testing his body’s responsiveness, half trying for comfort. His hand slips to grip Sherlock’s wrist, and those violinist fingers wrap around John’s wrist in turn.

“John.”

John shivers. He can see now the abrasions and cuts on Sherlock’s forearms where his hospital gown doesn’t cover them. He has a hazy recollection of stumbling and clambering over rubble, rebar jutting like bones from cement walls. Escape had mattered so much more than looking to see what had scraped a shin or caught a thigh.

“You should be in bed.”

Sherlock just looks at him again, eyes an unyielding gleam of silver in the near dark. For the life of him John cannot tell if the light is growing brighter or not. In this dimness, with those eyes staring at him, John remembers looking up at fear and fury and desperation in those eyes, and he shudders.

John feels a surge of relief, aching in intensity, at the presence of his friend, followed closely by a similar flood of affection. It’s all a bit dizzying.

They’re not going to talk about this. Not now. Because if they do –

“John –”

“No, Sherlock, just –”

Those pale fingers start to pull away, and bless it, that _shite_ reflex makes John’s fingers grip tight against the soft skin and delicate bones of Sherlock’s wrist. “Shh. Just. Don’t – not now.” Sherlock stills, watches him warily, and John is reminded of how Sherlock’s hands pulled him up, of how he held on, and maybe that reflex has nothing to do with the desert at all.

John uses his free hand to draw back his bed covers, grunts as he budges back a little. “In,” he says.  When Sherlock stills, hesitates, but doesn’t pull away, John adds, “Later – we can – later. If we need to.” He shivers as cool air creeps in along the seams of his hospital gown.

They’re not going to talk about this, not now, because if they do, Sherlock won’t stand up, Sherlock won’t seat himself hesitantly, awkwardly on the vacated side of the bed, his breath won’t hitch, and he won’t swing his legs up and into the folds of the bedding.

If they talk now, Sherlock will put words between them and this and whatever comes next, because Sherlock _words_ things. Cuts them into syllables and phonemes and tries to dissect the result.

And so they don’t talk, and instead Sherlock climbs into John’s bed, his breathing hitches, and he lies down facing John. John pulls the blankets back up, and for a moment the tension in Sherlock’s body has him doubting his conclusions as much as his methods.

But then Sherlock seems to thaw, the stiffness melting from him, and his frame leans closer to John’s, and there’s a bit of mutual shifting, and they are just shy of tucked against each other.

 

When John wakes up again, it’s midday. Sherlock is staring at him once more, eyelids batting slowly, as if loathe to blink. Dark curls interrupt the sharp lines of his features. His lips are slightly parted. They look soft.

“Again with the staring,” John murmurs, his eyes finding Sherlock’s.

“Just in case,” Sherlock answers.

John takes Sherlock’s hand in his, and it doesn’t feel like a first step.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, if you'd like to follow me on tumblr or chat, my username there is the same as here:  
> patternofdefiance  
> <3


End file.
